


Dying Embers

by screamingrose



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Original Story - Freeform, not fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingrose/pseuds/screamingrose
Summary: I side-eye the boxes with his old clothes and belongings in it. They’re going to be burned eventually. Probably never. Next week, definitely next week. I sidestep the boxes and head to my computer to do some of my homework. There is a knock at the door. Thursday at 8:18pm, right on schedule. I’m not even surprised anymore.





	Dying Embers

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a school project and I'm really proud about it so I thought I'd post it here.
> 
> If you could give me some feedback that'd be great!

I side-eye the boxes with his old clothes and belongings in it. They’re going to be burned eventually. Probably never. Next week, definitely next week. I sidestep the boxes and head to my computer to do some of my homework. There is a knock at the door. Thursday at 8:18pm, right on schedule. I’m not even surprised anymore. A letter has popped out of the mail slot on my door and lands on the doormat. I open the door and am not surprised to find no one on the other side. I shut my door and bend down to grab the letter. I move back to my living room, letter in hand and fiddle with it. Rubbing my thumb and pointer finger on the letter and lightly hitting my other hand with the end of it. I know what it is, I still don’t look forward to proving myself right.

“Better to get it over with,” I tell no one in particular. I open the baby blue envelope. Written on lavender curlicue stationary is a short and to the point plea.

 

**Dear Renn,**

**You hold my heart. I can’t move on, I’ve tried. Take me back, you’re the only one I want.**

**~You know who**

 

I crumple up the letter and throw it in one of the boxes to be burned with other letters like it. It’s late at night, I decide to make a quick snack and then go back to my work. Psychology papers don’t write themselves.

Poking around my fridge reveals not many options. There’s leftover pasta from two nights ago, a few bottles of beer, condiments, salad and sandwich fixings. I mentally note that I need to go shopping soon. I proceed to order a pizza from Joey’s and return to the living room. Joey’s isn’t far from my apartment building so the pizza should be here soon, still piping hot.

My phone rings. I make no move to see who it is. Seventeen missed calls, all from one person just this week. My left eye starts to twitch. I find myself doing one of the few things I enjoy to unwind: zoning out in front of the tv while I wait for my pizza.

It’s fifteen til nine when there’s knocking at the door. I get up from watching some bar makeover show and cross the small space to the apartment door. I open it and see Marcus on the other side.

“How do you do, Renn?” He’s cute, tan with some freckles and brown eyes. The kind that look like they’re galaxies, little planets orbiting the pupil. He’s shorter than me, but not by much, maybe an inch or two, with bleach blonde hair.

“Good and you?” He’s given me his number a few times; I’ve never called. I hold the door slightly closed. It’s hugging my side and somewhat supporting my weight.

“Oh you know not bad, got no plans this weekend. Jamie wants me to go to Mom’s with her but I’d rather - ”.

At this point I’ve stopped listening. He’s rambling and making grand gestures with his left hand, right hand holding the pizza. All I want is my food and some beer. To sit on the couch, zoning out to some bar makeover show. I can do homework tomorrow. But I smile and nod like I care about this guy who’s five years younger than me, at best. I absentmindedly tap the door with my left foot.

“- but anyway I’ve got your usual.” He hands me the pizza box.

I pay him the ten dollars and tell him to keep the tip. I make my way to the living room with my pizza. I put the box on the coffee table and leave to get a bottle of beer from the fridge. Once returning I realize that Marcus has left his phone number on the box. I’m still not gonna call.

I light one of the many scent producers in my apartment, an apple cinnamon candle on the coffee table, and start enjoying my dinner. The bar makeover show has ended while I was talking with Marcus. A chef competition show is on. It’s never really occurred to me how many of the shows I zone out to actually concern food until now. It’s at the point of the show when the chefs are being critiqued on their dishes and some are getting pointed out as the weaker links, I start to notice a smell. Not the apple cinnamon scent from the candle. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber. I decide that I’ve had enough to drink. I notice the beer bottles and wonder where the second one came from. I start to get ready for bed. I’m somehow intelligent enough to blow out the candle on the coffee table, while still leaving the living room in shambles. It’s the Renn of tomorrow's problem.

I turn on my bedroom light and grab my dark purple pajamas when my mind begins to wander in its slightly buzzed state. I think about the smell and what it reminds me of. That night last year in July. My favorite white dress stained with blood and that had to get ripped and shredded. Of my hair, when it used to pass my waist instead of the above shoulder bob I now have. Of him and that car. There should be tears in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall and drown my bedding. My eyes are as dry as sandpaper. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I need another drink.

I turn off the light while reminiscing and decide it's time to clock out. Dressed in my pajamas I crawl into bed and play on my phone until I pass out, forgetting to turn the tv in the living room off. With the tv static in the background I stay in dreamland. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline filling my nostrils. The touch of charred flesh mixed with asphalt on my cheek.

It’s Friday morning at nine something in the morning when I wake up to the noise of the tv in the living room. “That’s not gonna be nice on this month’s electric bill.” I mentally smack myself for forgetting to turn it off last night. Drunk Ren needs to be told a few rules...at least she remembered the candle. “Did I even lock the door?” I flop out of my bed. Blankets curling and cocooning around my legs, begging to cover and warm me once again. I manage to escape their fluffy clutches and reach the living room. It stinks of stale leftover beer, cold pizza, and something burning. I need to call the landlord and see if there’s a gas leak or something.

I grab one of the many notepads from on top of my coffee table and make a list to tackle the day. While writing my list I smack the pencil to the pad of paper and absentmindedly stick the clip on the end of it in between my lips, sometimes letting a tooth play with the clip.

Item 1: Breakfast. Need to eat something, not just coffee again

Item 2: Clean this goddamn apartment like Mom’s coming over for a visit

Item 3: Homework (Yes it actually needs to get done)

Item 4: Shower, you reak

Concerning breakfast, choices are looking grim. There’s literally no options in the fridge for breakfast. I notice the leftover pizza from last night; and that is always great morning fuel. I sit on the couch while eating my meal. I grab the notepad again and flip to a new page. I start to make a shopping list for whenever I do manage to go to the grocery store.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cleaning is such a broad term depending on how ambitious the person is that day. I glare at my apartment in shambles. Blankets and dirty socks litter my floor. Dishes imitate the Leaning Tower of Pisa in my sink. Not to mention all the dirt and what not that’s collecting on my floors. To be blatant, this is gonna suck. Cleaning could be just picking up the trash or scrubbing the shower to a completely different color. I’m not that ambitious. Cleaning today includes dishes, vacuuming, taking care of the trash, tidying up the place in general, and getting rid of those damn boxes (hopefully).

I don’t even know where to go to burn them. I’ve never burned an ex’s stuff before, is there protocall? Do I need to call my girlfriends, do I need my best friend there? “Where can I even buy lighter fluid?” I stare at the pile once more as if it’s wronged me personally. I’ll get it done tomorrow, I can just go out to my mom’s and burn them. It’ll give me an excuse to visit her and get her off my back about it for a week or two. I pick up the pizza box, as well as the beer bottles, and begin the task.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I let out a sigh of refreshing air. My apartment looks so much better. I even mopped my bathroom floor! I look around at the freshly vacuumed living room and decide it’s time to work on that Psych paper before I forget about it again. I know that it needs to get done, doesn’t mean I hate it any less. The assignment is to write a two page paper from the list of experiments and case studies the Professor had prepared. I chose The Stanford Prison Experiment. I don’t hate writing papers and I absolutely DO NOT hate Psych, it’s just the mundane process of it all. Oh and writing the citations and work cited page, those suck.

The Stanford Experiment made me realize how cruel people can be if given the opportunity. The head of the experiment just took twenty four random men from the campus and assigned them prisoner or guard roles and, like actors really getting into character, the men completely forgot they weren’t really prisoners and guards. That took time of course but still, to think that under the right stressor breaking the human mind is possible. Depending on outside factors the men either turned aggressive or passive. They became completely different people and that’s scary to think about, but it intrigued me enough to want to learn about it. I just hope Professor Auguso won’t be to critical on the citations.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been a long day, I’m bone tired. A nap sounds marvelous right now but so does getting clean in hot water. I’m putting coconut conditioner in my hair when the shower curtain wiggles a little bit, It simulates a breeze that has found its way into the bathroom or a hand gently grazing the curtain. I strum it up to me just being tired and finish the shower. The steam from the hot water becomes a welcome distraction as it somehow makes every breath I take refreshing. I exit the shower and wrap a white towel around my body. I notice that it’s unusually drafty in my bathroom, perhaps I left a window open somewhere in the apartment. The nice June air is to be enjoyed after all. I head to the vanity sink to brush all the knots out of my hair before bed.

I look up.

I stand on wobbling knees in front of the bathroom mirror, brush loosely gripped in my right hand, and eyes wavering as smokey grey fingers comb through my hair. He’s here, caressing my chin. His lips, bloody and burned, are right next to my ear, breathing. In the corner of the foggy mirror the word ‘ **mine** ’ is scrawled in a sloppy signature.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Touch. That’s the first thing I notice. I feel scratchy fabric instead of fuzzy cotton. The next is smell, the area gives off a scent of cleaning products and food. I can barely hear...beeping, irritating and annoying beeping, and faint murmurs.

I will my eyes to open slightly, the brightness of the room gives me an immediate headache but I squint anyway. I am greeted by a white ceiling and a curtain around the bed I am lying in. I look down and am not too surprised to see a hospital gown instead of my white towel. I notice my hand and arm have tubes attached to them and are being fed into a machine.

A nurse enters the room not to long after I wake up, to check on the tubes and machines. He checks my vitals and then writes on the clipboard with what I’m assuming are my forms on it. As quickly as he came he puts the clipboard in the cubby hanging on the door to my room and leaves. I couldn’t even form a sentence.

I feel a slight throb on my forehead. I move my usable hand to inspect it, except when I reach the spot I feel fabric of some kind. It’s soft and tightly wound. I follow the cloth with my finger around my head. It seems to be a wrapping of some kind.  _ I repeatedly raked my fingers through my hair, it was short, shoulder length to be exact. _

“This is just like the last time”

“Hunny, who are you talking to?” I turn my head to my right and see my parents, they must have come in while I was reminiscing.

“Daddy, it’s just like last time.” Both of them turn to look at each other and then Dad gets up and goes to the door asking for a nurse. More like demanding. “Mom what happened? Why am I here again?”

“You fell baby, in your bathroom. A neighbor heard the noise and complained to the lobby of your building. Someone came up to your apartment after you wouldn’t answer your phone. They found you in your bathroom with a terrible gash on your head. They think you hit your head on the vanity when you fell.” Just then the doctor - the same doctor - entered the room with Dad behind him. I don’t want to remember him, instead I focus on the taste of ash that seems to linger.  _ I was supposed to cry right? That's what I saw in all those tv dramas, your loved one dies and you cry like half of your heart just got smothered. Instead I felt hollow, even a little bit of peace, and I know that was awful but I couldn’t bring myself to care really. _

The doctor -  _ stopped his explanation to Mom and Dad about what this actually meant and turned to me, a concentrated expression present. “I’m sorry...the rescue personnel were able to save you from the wreck but...he was already gone before they even got to the crash sight...we did try to bring him back but...I’m sorry.” _ \- was talking to Mom and Dad again, discussing treatment options and payment plans.

I don’t really like where this is going. I’m fine, I’m sure of it. “I don’t want treatment.”

The two men direct their attention back to me, “Sweety you really should consider-”

“No Dad, I’m twenty-six. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and I don’t want treatment.”  _ I should have taken it. I wouldn’t be in this mess if I did. _ I grip the thin blanket that is covering me and turn my gaze to the floor. Just like last time.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s the following Tuesday in the afternoon, I’m lounging in my parent’s living room. I was told not to exert myself and that I should be on bedrest for a few weeks. Mom insisted that I stay with her and Dad until I’m all better. Guess they don’t trust me alone in my apartment. Professor Auguso understands my predicament and will be emailing me lectures and assignments as they pass by. I wonder if one of my friends in that class talked him into it.

The fireplace crackles and groans next to me, demanding another sacrifice for it to keep living. I’ve sunken to far into the loveseat to give up this comfort and feed it however.

Apparently we learned about PTSD and Survivor Guilt yesterday in class. Just another topic I’ve found myself intrigued by. Perhaps I have this, it would make sense. Either that or I’m being haunted. I survived and he didn’t and now I feel the guilt and am being haunted by him - so to speak. Although I am self diagnosing and that’s usually never good.

I still smell the burning rubber and asphalt. He’s still here somewhere. Lurking. Waiting for me.

I asked Mom if I could burn his things in the backyard firepit. When she told me yes she also offered to go and get his stuff from my apartment. More like insisted if I’m being honest. After the conversation died she turned to me and asked why I never answered Dad’s phone calls or her letters. “We’ve been trying to keep in touch with you dear, did you change your number, I know that the mailing address is right.” I blanked at her for a moment. That was them? I apologized immensely and tell her I’ll be over more often to make up for it. That still puzzles me. It was never him. He was never trying to talk to me. He isn’t here -

I hear the dying roar of the car’s engine, guess it’s time to do this.

I am greeted by my mom at the front door, she says his stuff is in the trunk of the car. I go to grab the keys for the car and to put my shoes on when she stops me for a moment.

“This was left for you on your doormat” she hands me a card with a puppy that has a thermometer in it’s mouth on the front. I open it.

 

_**Hey Ren,** _

 

“Oh that’s interesting.” I say in remark to the handwriting as I begin to read the card. I leave for the backyard.

 

_**I’m so sorry to hear about what happened. I hope you’re feeling a lot better.** _  
_**Listen, I’m sorry for always hitting on you and stuff. (You’re way outta my league but that’s beside the point). I mean we hardly know each other. So I’m not coming to you as the Marcus that likes you, but as the Marcus that hopes to get you know you better and become your friend.** _

_**Your friendly neighborhood pizza man** _

 

I find myself in front of the trunk of the car once I’m done reading the card. I pocket the card in my jeans, “Maybe I will give him a call.” I grab the three boxes of my ex’s belonging from the trunk and head to the firepit. 

The firepit glows as I fuel it with the belongings in the boxes. His old hoodies that I stole from him, his cds, the pictures. Each item I throw in, the fire is more appreciative of it. I look down at the last object in the box, a ring hanging on a gold necklace. The ring is just a black band with a thin red stripe skating along the middle, the words ‘ **forever and always** ’ inscribed on the inside.

I hold it by the chain and let the ring dance in front of the glowing embers. It twirls and glistens in the setting sunlight. For once in my life I cry for him. The tears flood my eye’s ducts and continue to fall down my cheeks, some seeking refuge on my lips, others falling and dripping down my chin.

I fall to my knees and hold the ring to my chest as I weep. The fire giving off it’s last breath. The dying embers take over.


End file.
